


Where Are All the Good Men Dead?

by Siobhan_Schuyler



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-11
Updated: 2007-02-11
Packaged: 2017-10-19 07:39:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/198495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siobhan_Schuyler/pseuds/Siobhan_Schuyler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For all of John Winchester's careful posturing, he crumbles like a house of cards the moment my door closes behind him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where Are All the Good Men Dead?

For all of John Winchester's careful posturing, he crumbles like a house of cards the moment my door closes behind him.

He comes here for answers, for things I get out of books, out of the common sense he lacks, out of having hunted for longer than he has, and more wisely. Sometimes he comes for a spare part for his truck, sometimes for a drink. But most of the time he comes when he's tired, too far into his own head to pretend anymore. He leaves the boys with Jim Murphy and comes here, looking like he's already been to hell and it spat him back out.

He's never more than two, maybe three beers away from total breakdown. There's no wracking sobs or tearful despair; that's not the sort of man he is. Not anymore, anyway. I think he might've been at some point, before what happened to Mary; might've been the sort of man who smiled and laughed and felt sadness when you were supposed to, the way you were supposed to. These days it's all stoic bravado, like every battle is just another monster to deflect. He's not as solid, as unshakable as he likes to pretend he is. But I understand the need to be that man, that general, in front of his boys, who look up to him like he's the answer to everything, when John has so few answers for himself. Dean does, at the very least; Sam, I can already see him rebel, not even six and already questioning too much, already seeing past the narrow perimeter of John's fixations.

When John cracks, it's quietly. It's a drunken hitch of his breath, deep in his chest. It's the sadness weighing at his eyes, and the way his hands fists into my shirt. The way he'll manhandle me into a corner, literally and figuratively, until he's got nowhere else to go and I can take over. Leading was never natural for him; he's only just a rough scratch of his fingernails on my face away from losing his facade. It's just a question of waiting him out.

He sinks to his knees like someone just cut the rope he'd been swinging from. His thick fingers, deft and quick when it comes to weapons and combat, fumble for belts and zippers; he gives sloppy, painful blowjobs, all teeth and spit and the water squeezing out at the corners of his eyes. He swallows everything and asks for more, head bent silently, looking like a penitent waiting for absolution.

I can't look away when he undresses. His back always to me, not out of modesty but wanting, impossibly, to take up less space. There's not much room in here to start with; I had a sweet girl once, for almost a year, who used to say mine looked like a priest's bedroom, complete with crucifix and indecipherable tomes lining the walls. John never seems to mind the close quarters, or the cross, the books, the way I can't look away from his skin once it's bared.

Every inch of him is a crisscross of scars, old and new. Some inevitable, some acquired by something too close to a death wish. I could name each foe by the mark they left on the man who killed them. There's a constellation of four gunshot wounds in his side, long-healed. From his tour in Nam, maybe. I never asked.

There's a dichotomy to his submission, the way it's both easy and labored. He's gotten himself so used to being the one looking down on people. Helping him back to himself takes patience, a steady hand. It's like working at a cement wall with a spoon, digging him out of his own prison. But I've got time. I've always got time for an old friend. We all do, Jim and Caleb and Bill and Joshua and me. Doesn't matter that some of us wish him dead when he's gone. Sometimes it feels like hoping for a mercy blow.

He's quiet in his undoing, when people are usually at their loudest. When I fuck into him, carefully blunt the way he always seems to want most, his mouth gapes against the sheet, wet and breathless, always wordless. I watch the curl of his fingers against the mattress, the shift of strong muscles across his back, bunching at his shoulders. He'll hiss a moan if I run my fingers through his hair, neck to crown, then fist it just a little too hard. But most of the time I just dig bruises into his hips, his ass, adding to the records of abuse he sports like notches in a bedpost. He only ever spends himself when I make it hurt. I'm not always willing to.

I let him sleep, afterwards. If I can tear my eyes from the jagged gash a harpy tore into his side once, I turn off the light and close the door and go make a pot of coffee. He always wants coffee in the morning, nothing else. When John comes here to break apart, he forgets about the things he usually comes here for, spells and intel and second-hand carburetors. I sleep on the couch, if I sleep at all. I have a crucifix nailed to the living room wall, for nights just like these.

He looks like himself again in the watery light of morning. He doesn't say anything as he shuffles past me, but he's standing a little taller. I watch him build up his walls brick by brick again, a little sloppier every time. I can see him thinking about his boys, about what comes next, about how he has no idea. About the path ahead, winding and steep, either without destination, or with one about to come too abruptly in a hidden curve of the road. I see the weight pile right back up, but this time his shoulders are stronger. He can bear the load.

Until next time.


End file.
